


Worries

by Gemi



Series: Archivist Blackwood [3]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Archivist!Martin, Assistant!Jon, Because Jane Prentiss exists, Body Horror, Jane Prentiss - Freeform, M/M, Pining, Season 1, rated mature bc Jane is gross
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2020-11-24 15:50:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20910176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gemi/pseuds/Gemi
Summary: Jonathan Sims is never sick.





	1. Gets a Text

Jonathan Sims is never sick.  
  
He hasn’t worked with them for _long_, but long enough that when Martin gets a text from him about a stomach bug, well. It’s a shock. Because Jon is _never sick_.  
  
He is always sleep deprived and grumpy and looking like he deserves a good, long nap and thick sweaters and maybe some extra tea, too. But he’s never sick. Martin spends perhaps far too long just staring at the text- it’s the third text Jon has ever sent him. The other two were only the word _‘fine’_ when Martin had sent requests to him. Seeing the _‘I’m sick with stomach bugs. Will keep in contact’_ is strange and weirdly terrifying. It’s too long and detailed and...  
  
Jon is _sick_.   
  
Martin stares for a moment longer. Then he gets up and leaves his office to get some tea.  
  
Tim and Sasha are in the breakroom, laughing as they lean against each other. Tim seems to be showing a video on his phone, and Martin would normally ask to see what’s so funny, spend a short time giggling with them until Jon begins to hover in the doorway, glowering as if _he_ is the Archivist until Martin always ends up feeling too guilty to _not_ return to work, even if he has fifteen minutes left of his break.   
Instead Martin pulls out his favorite cup, the red one, and reach for the teapot.  
  
“Jon is sick,” he says.  
  
Sasha and Tim look up from the phone. Sasha’s eyes are comically wide behind her thick glasses. Tim’s right eyebrow slowly lifts up in a way that Martin always quietly envied. It looks _smooth_. Suave.   
  
“_Jon_ is sick?” Tim wryly asks, “Is he dying?”  
  
Martin plops a sugarcube into his tea and freezes.   
  
_Is_ Jon dying? Should they check on him? Call an ambulance? It’s Jon, of course he’s dying, why didn’t Martin think of this sooner! Does he even have food at home? He did say he was going to check up on the spider case, maybe he is trapped by that weird ghost spider in his apartment but is too proud to call for help, except that makes _no_ sense because Jon once broke four shelves trying to kill one spider and Tim never let him forget that but what if it’s something else, then, like _cancer_ or a missing limb or-  
  
“Or it’s a stomach bug and he doesn’t want to throw up at work,” Sasha says, reaching out and squeezing Martin’s shoulder. It’s grounding, and her smile is calming. Martin’s own feels shaky and weak, but it feels rude to _not _smile back. “I’m sure it’s fine. Jon is… proud. If anything can make him stay home, it’s the fear of throwing up on old books.”  
  
“Would lighten our workload though,” Tim chuckles, then winks at Martin. “He will be fine, _boss_.”   
  
Martin grimaces.   
  
“Stop calling me that. It’s _weird_.”   
  
“But it’s the truth! You’re my boss now. How is it, being the boss? Not been very bossy so far,” Tim teases, and Martin_ wants_ to be pulled into light hearted bickering, to tease back and try his best to not act flustered about the fact that they’re technically not equals anymore.  
  
But Jon is sick. So Martin smiles nervously and looks down at his tea instead. He press his thumb against a small chip in the cup, a white dot against red.  
  
“... I… are you sure we shouldn’t check up on him?” he asks, looking back to Sasha. Tim huffs, but Martin manages to keep his eyes on her anyway. “He’s _never_ sick.”  
  
“He managed to text you. It might just be he ate something bad and had to stay home for the day, or a migraine or something,” Sasha replies. She nudges her shoulder against his arm, because that is about as high as it goes. Martin hates towering over people and Sasha is shorter than even _Jon_. But it’s hard to remember that, with how confident both she and Jonathan are. Very different kinds of confidence, but confidence nevertheless.   
  
“Alright,” he agrees, and hands over the jar of sugarcubes to Tim when the other waggle his eyebrows meaningfully, “Alright. I’ll give it three days. If he’s _still_ not better…”  
  
“You will ambush him with tender loving and care,” Tim cuts in, “gotcha. Maybe bring some statements too, he’s enough of a nerd to _want _to do work when sick.”  
  
“I wouldn’t! I’m- I would never force him- any of you! To work. When sick!” Martin protests, hunching his shoulders and holding the cup of tea just a little closer, trying to focus on the warmth of it and not the anxiety and _horror _at the idea of being such an awful boss.   
  
“You wouldn’t be forcing _him_,” Tim points out, and both Martin and Sasha grimace when he pops a sugarcube into his mouth, crunching loudly. “He would be ecstatic. But also, yeah, you better not do that to us. I refuse to work overtime.”   
  
“I don’t know, would we get money for the overtime?” Sasha wonders. Which is a good point, actually, because _Martin_ doesn’t know. He should, shouldn’t he? He has- he has worked at the Institute for a long time, and overtime more than once. Definitely more now when he’s the Archivist.  
  
It’s odd, not knowing that. He purses his lips and decides to ask Elias.  
  
Speaking of Elias, however…  
  
“I- I should tell Elias that Jon is sick.”  
  
Sasha and Tim blink at him.   
  
“Isn’t it enough to just write it in?”  
  
“I- I guess? It’s just, I don’t know. I’m not…” Martin gestures vaguely with his free hand, careful to not spill any of his tea. “I’m not _used_ to being the- the boss.”  
  
“We can tell,” Tim wryly replies, only to hiss when Sasha shoves a pointy elbow into his side. Martin smiles and ducks his head, hoping to hide it before Tim sees.  
  
“I’m sure Elias would appreciate it. And if not, he will probably tell you what to do next time. I need to go now, though,” she says, looking at her phone, “I’m supposed to meet a guy who got the papers needed for the-” she makes a grossed out face, “the _meat_ statement.”  
  
“The mea- oh! Oh, you mean, um, the guy who… who nailed meat to his walls?”  
  
Sasha shudders.  
  
“_So_ gross.”  
  
“Yeah,” Tim muses, “I still haven’t found any butchers who sold him anything. Weird one.”   
  
“What kind of papers, Sasha?” Martin asks, curious even if he really, really doesn’t want to think about Toby Carlisle’s weird meat obsession while drinking tea.   
  
“Financial records!”  
  
“Ooooh. Oh. Is- legally?”  
  
Sasha smiles awkwardly, and Martin clears his throat.  
  
“Right. Right. I’ll- I’ll go back to work. After I tell Elias, I guess. Um. If Jon texts any of you guys, tell me? Please?”   
  
“Why would he text _us_?”   
  
“I don’t know, Tim, I just- I worry! He’s never-”  
  
“Been sick, we got it,” Tim sighs, “We will tell you, bossy boss.”  
  
“I’m with Martin. Stop that,” Sasha complains, “it sounds super weird.”  
  
“You guys are no fun. I’m just paying my respect, like a good employee-”   
  
“Bye, Tim! Bye Sasha,” Martin cuts in, because he’s worked with Tim long enough to recognize a _rant_, and he begins to shuffle away from them, “See you later!”  
  
He hurries out before they can respond, and Martin decides against telling Elias just yet. He can figure it out, how to sign in Jon as sick. It can’t be _that_ hard.  
  
And if Martin checks his phone when he’s back in his office, well, only he needs to know. Not that it matters.

Jon hasn’t sent any more messages. 


	2. Brings Soup

Martin doesn’t want to nag, but he still somehow ends up sending four more texts to Jon before the day is over, and more the next day. Each of them are replied to, delayed enough that Martin is pretty sure he keeps accidentally waking Jon up. He would _stop_, it’s just- well, Jon is writing weird. Martin is pretty sure that Jon is _delirious_. He’s been texting about- about something crawling under his skin, then given too many details on _vomit_. And he keeps misspelling words, like stomach _bugs_ instead of bug, though Martin guesses that might just be a cause of autocorrect.   
  
But Martin promised Sasha to wait for at least three days. And Jon is clearly good enough to- to at least be able to text? It’s just _hard_. He wants to come over with soup and painkillers and honey for some nice tea, make sure Jon isn’t wasting away and avoiding the hospital out of pride or something.  
  
Martin bites his lip and stares down at the latest text- the one talking too much about vomit.   
  
Jon is still capable of texting. Maybe- maybe he _will_ be fine for two more days. He has to be.   
  
Two more days, then Martin can visit. He can do that. He can last until then, and he will bring tea and soup and painkillers and maybe ice cream? Something soothing for Jon’s throat because he complained it itched like ants were crawling inside there. Is ice cream good for that? Maybe he should stick to tea and soup. 

  


Martin somehow ends up spending those two days choosing between soups. He thankfully already knows Jon’s favorite tea. 

  


He is _pretty_ sure he also did some work. Not more statements, he can only handle once a week, no matter how much Jon nags on him to make at least two every week instead. But he _thinks_ he did other things. Like filing and sorting. Martin knows for sure he brewed a lot of tea that he gave to Sasha and Tim.   
  
But mostly he spends those two days trying to choose between chicken soup and miso soup. Martin is pretty sure he had heard Jon liked those two, but what if he hadn’t heard it? What if it’s all imagination? What if Jon will refuse to eat any of it? Should Martin take the safe route and bring both?  
  
“Just give him the chicken one,” Tim groans, “and _go_. Before we _all_ go insane!”  
  
Martin can feel his entire face burst into flames.  
  
“I’m, I, I just want him to get better,” he says, shifting on his feet, shoes squeaking against the linoleum floor of the breakroom. “It’s been three days, Sasha said I could go now.”  
  
Sasha sighs. Martin doesn’t look at her.   
  
“Everyone likes chicken soup and it’s good for you or whatever,” Tim says, and Martin grimace as he watches Tim put _three_ sugarcubes into his tea. “So choose that and just go. None of us are getting work done.”  
  
“S-Sorry-”  
  
“It’s fine, Martin,” Sasha cuts in, and now he does look at her. She’s giving him a smile, but Martin is pretty sure he doesn’t imagine it looks like a tense one. “You’re worried, and that’s fine. Tim is worried too-”  
  
“Pfft, guess again.”   
  
“And,” she says, raising her voice above Tim’s scoffing, “I’m sure Jon would appreciate some support! Or, you know, stay alive if he’s struggling with that. But!” she hurries to add when Martin can feel himself pale, “But you’ll never get there if you don’t choose? And like Tim said, chicken soup _is_ kind of the classic sickness soup. I’m sure it’ll be perfect.”   
  
“... fine,” he mumbles, and opens the package. “I’ll cook it here. That’s okay, right?”   
  
“Does microwaving store bought soup count as cooking?”  
  
“No, Tim, it doesn’t,” Martin mutters. He hears Tim sigh, then feels his colleague bump against him.  
  
“Hey, cheer up boss. Jon’s fine. And also, for future reference, if _I_ ever get sick? I want miso soup.”  
  
“You just said-”  
  
“When _I_ get sick. Just saying!”   
  
“Do you deserve to get home delivery?” Sasha giggles, and Martin moves a bit out of the way to let her get at the teapot, “_Jon_ is a hard worker.”  
  
“Are you accusing me of slacking off, Miss James?”  
  
“Maybe a little, Mister Stoker.”   
  
“Well, Mister Blackwood has a question,” Martin cuts in, smiling despite himself as he pours the soup into a bowl he is _pretty_ sure is microsafe, “Isn’t it just fifteen minutes until we close? Why _are_ you both in here?”  
  
“We’re not going to work overtime,” Sasha assures him with a quick pat to his arm, “But you’ve been in here for at least ten minutes trying to decide. Tim and I just wanted to help.”  
  
“And spending the very last bit of work drinking tea seemed like a good compensation for having picked up Jon’s slack,” Tim adds with a grin.  
  
“He’s _sick_.”  
  
“And I don’t know if your tea counts as tea anymore,” Sasha says before Tim can respond, “that’s not tea, that’s a cup of sugar sludge.”  
  
Martin puts the bowl into the microwave and glance at Tim’s cup. And- yeah. Yeah, that’s not tea anymore. Tim must have added more sugar when Martin wasn’t looking.   
  
“We all have our vices, Miss James,” Tim replies, and takes a pointed sip of his sludge. Sasha and Martin both grimace, which of course only makes Tim grin as he points at Sasha. “For example, _you_ drink ten cups of coffee every day.”   
  
“You don’t even put anything in your coffee, too,” Martin says, and the microwave starts humming loudly, the way only ancient microwaves do as it works. “I don’t- I don’t know which one of you are worse.”  
  
“Um, Tim, obviously? That’s not even liquid anymore. Leave my coffee alone.”  
  
“Besides, Jon is clearly the worst of us. He doesn’t drink, eat _or_ sleep,” Tim cheerfully adds, “are we sure he’s human? Maybe someone made a statement about him and we just haven’t read it yet.”  
  
“That’s _awful_.”  
  
“But am I wrong?”  
  
“Yes!” they both say right as the microwave starts beeping furiously. It’s a very strange beep, weirdly static filled and warped. Old machinery always somehow gives off creepy vibes, Martin decides as he hurries to take the bowl out. It’s steaming hot, and he winces as he puts it aside to make sure he didn’t burn his fingers.  
  
“That actually smells good.”  
  
“Stay back, miso soup lover,” Sasha laughs, handing Martin the thermos, “This is for Jonathan Sims, not Timothy Stoker.”  
  
“Urgh, don’t say Timothy.”  
  
“It really doesn’t suit you, does it?”  
  
“It _really_ doesn’t.”  
  
Martin begins to pour the soup into the thermos as Tim and Sasha continues to talk. He manages to avoid spilling any of it and sighs in relief. The lid is secured, and Martin tucks the thermos into his bag. It’s already bulging with everything else he got, but so far no one has teased him for it and he truly hopes it remains that way.  
  
“Alright, I’m off,” he says, lingering, “you guys _will_ leave soon, right?”  
  
“Yes, boss,” Tim replies, “almost finished my tea.”  
  
“Stop calling it tea!” Sasha protests.   
  
“A coffee drinker has no right to demand that of me.”  
  
“I’m drinking tea as we speak,” Sasha laughs, and shows off her very much non-sludge like tea topped with but a bit of milk, “I have every right.”  
  
“None of you appreciate true taste.”  
  
Martin clears his throat.  
  
“We’ll be fine, Martin,” Sasha grins, “we’ll close up for you and everything. Tell Jon we miss him?”  
  
“What, you are telling our boss to lie to a sick man? Sasha, for shame.”  
  
“Who said you were included in the ‘we’?”   
  
Tim mock-gasps, Sasha laughs and Martin bites back a laugh of his own.  
  
“Alright,” he says, “I’ll see you tomorrow then. Thank you. Um, bye!”  
  
“Bye!” they both chorus as Martin leaves, and as much as he dislikes being called _boss_, it’s nice to know it has just become another nickname that Tim likes to use. They still treat Martin as one of them, and it’s a relief and-  
  
And now it’s time for Jon.   
  
Jon hasn’t replied to the text Martin sent around lunch, so Martin doesn’t _know_ if Jon knows he’s on the way. He hopes he does. Jon doesn’t like surprises, after all, and Martin only wants to help. He doesn’t want to cause stress or anything.   
  
He checks his phone on the tube, but there’s still no response by the time Martin gets off. It’s worrying, more than any of the strange texts Jon _has_ sent. He truly hopes it doesn’t mean he has to call an ambulance.   
  
At least Jon doesn’t live far away from the Institute; in fact, he lives too close. Martin wouldn’t be surprised if Jon _walked _rather than took the tube, and considering how much Jon tries to overwork, that’s not good. Or maybe it is. Better a thirty minute walk than a two hour ride, after all. Or- or something. It’s just, he works so hard and Martin always feels weird _ordering_ him to go home when he’s trying to work overtime _again_, and this is probably why Jon is sick, too. Too much overtime. If he is sick. Maybe he’s not sick. Maybe he’s dead. No, wait, no. That’s a _stupid_ thing to think. He texted Martin just this morning, so he has to be alive. Right? Right.  
  
Martin stops before Jon’s building and tries to breathe, tries to calm his rambling thoughts.   
  
“He’s fine, he’s fine,” he mumbles to himself and opens the door. He steps inside and takes a deep breath to further calm himself down.  
  
Or tries to, anyway. Instead the most foul scent he’s _ever_ smelled hits him and Martin gags. It’s bad enough that he can taste it, and Martin presses his arm against his nose, hoping that it will help. It really doesn’t.  
  
What is that _smell? _Is it mold? Does Jon live in a moldy building? Is that why he’s sick? But no, mold doesn’t smell like that, does it? This is sweet somehow. Like rotting fruit, but there’s something else in there, too. Martin swallows, arm still against his face as he begins to walk up the stairs- the old lift is apparently out of use. Martin wishes it wasn’t because every step up the stairs makes the smell stronger, strong enough that he’s pretty sure he would throw up all over the place if he dropped his arm. Did someone forget to throw out their trash or something? Or is it a type of mold he doesn’t know about?   
  
Martin stops in the middle of the stairs as an awful thought comes to mind.   
  
Is it a body smell? Is someone dead? Is _Jon_ dead? Has Jon died? No, no, stupid idea, Martin- Martin _knows_ he was texted. He knows that. Even Sasha and Tim knows Jon texted him today! So Jon isn’t dead, because rotting bodies don’t start to smell until, what, days later? And _if_ Jon is dead, it’s too early for that.  
  
But Jon isn’t dead. Jon is _fine_.  
  
Martin thinks it like a mantra as he walks up the stairs, and they are the kind that curve and spiral upwards. They’re dirty, too- Martin somehow thought Jon lived in a more clean building, but the railings look sticky and gross and there are smudges of dead bugs on the steps. The lights are flickering so it’s hard to see what bugs, but he hopes Jon hasn’t gone on a spider killing spree. Again.  
  
Martin reaches into his bag and pulls out the thermos, ready to use it as a peace offering in case Jon tries to slam the door on him. He’s finally on the second floor and Martin looks up, thermos clutched tight in his free hand.   
  
At first he doesn’t know what he’s looking at.  
  
It’s human, he thinks at first. It’s human shaped, standing outside Jon’s door. They’re almost as tall as Martin, with long, dirty hair that is one big tangle. A woman. But there is something about her, something-   
  
She turns around and Martin freezes on the spot.  
  
Jane Prentiss smiles, or at least he thinks she is smiling. He can’t be sure because there are worms spilling out everywhere, so many holes that he doesn’t even know where her _eyes_ are. If she even has any.   
  
She rests a hand against Jon’s door and she speaks.  
  
He doesn’t know what she is saying. Her voice is too- she can’t _possibly_ be able to form words, but that’s not what’s important. What’s important is that she suddenly walks towards him in fast, jerky motions and the _worms_ are coming towards him, too, wriggling fast against the floor and Martin-  
  
Martin panics.  
  
He screams and throws the thermos at her, hard enough that she stumbles backwards and then he _runs_.  
  
Later, Martin doesn’t know how he didn’t break his neck running down those stairs, nor does he know how he managed to run all the way to the Institute. What he _does_ know is that Jane Prentiss follows and it’s dark and the streets are _empty_, somehow, it’s London, they shouldn’t be empty but they are and she will _catch him_ and no one will ever know and he’s going to die and-  
  
Martin slams into the glass doors of the Institute, trying to yank the doors open except they are locked, of course they are, they _closed_, Tim and Sasha helped him lock up so he could look after Jon and oh, god, _Jon!_ He sobs and fumbles for his keys and manages to slot them into place right as something stumbles into him.  
  
A second time that night, Martin screams. But this time there’s no thermos to throw, and so he instead uselessly flails his arms at his assaulter, even if his _arms_ won’t help at all against someone like _Jane Prentiss_-  
  
Except it’s not Jane Prentiss.  
  
Jon stumbles back, his eyes wide and his glasses crooked and his hair a mess but it’s Jon. Jonathan Sims is _alive_, and Martin wants to cry and hug him and cry _at him_. Instead, he somehow manages to get the doors open and shoves Jon inside before he hurriedly follows. He locks them, hands slicked with sweat, enough so that he drops his keys twice before he hears the click.   
  
Only when he has managed to pocket them does he realize that they are safe. Because there is no Jane Prentiss by the doors or even by the stairs leading up to the Institute.   
  
It’s just empty streets and him and Jon.  
  
Their heavy breathing fills the room. Martin wheezes. When he looks at Jon, the other man is hunched over, hands on his knees and sweating so hard that Martin can see drops of it hit the floor.  
  
He swallows.  
  
“D-do you want some tea?”   
  
Jon looks up at him, his face pale and thin and lips parting as he stares. Then he snorts. Then he laughs, and it’s not a normal laugh, it’s a hysterical one that’s too high and loud.   
  
But Martin starts laughing with him, just as hysterical, as they both crumple to the floor.

They are _ safe_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay!


	3. Takes a Statement

Martin doesn’t know for how long they sit there. He knows they laugh long enough that his body aches from it, his already burning lungs struggling to keep up. He knows that his cheeks are wet from tears and he knows that Jon looks dangerously close to tipping over.

The important thing is that they eventually stop.

He hiccups. Clears his throat and wipes at his brow, sweaty and tired and aching from- well,  _ everything _ .

“So- so, really. Tea?” Martin asks, and Jon snorts before he nods. 

“Tea sounds… good, right now,” he agrees, and Martin smiles shakily back. 

Getting up isn’t as easy as it was to simply crumple down, but they eventually manage it. Now when the adrenaline has left him, Martin feels shaky and every muscle is burning from the strain. He glances towards the outside- the glass door and the large glass windows give a perfect view of the outside, but it remains free of any Jane Prentiss.

“Was it you?” Jon asks as they stumble down the stairs towards the archives, because that feels far safer at the moment than the well-lit, windowed parts of the Institute. 

Martin blinks and looks towards him, the stairs only barely wide enough to let them walk side by side.

“What?”

  
“Outside- I mean, were you the one who screamed? Outside my apartment?” he clarifies, gesturing vaguely, before he  _ pales _ . Not that Martin blames him- the reminder makes him pale, too, and he shudders as they exit the stairs and turn the corner, towards the safety of the breakroom. 

“Yes. Yes, it was me,” he says, and then remembers. “Oh! Oh  _ no _ , I was- I threw your soup at her!” 

Jon stops. Martin turns around, wringing his hands and he  _ knows _ that’s a bad habit, his mother always scolds him for it, but a petty part inside of him feels he deserves to indulge a little right now.

“Soup?” Jon asks, eyeing Martin like he’s insane.

  
“Yes! Chicken soup, since you were sick.” He pauses. “Wait. Are you sick? Should I get you blankets, a bucket?”

“Martin, I’m not  _ sick _ .”

“You’re not? But you said you were!”

  
“I haven’t told anyone  _ anything _ . For three days!” Jon snaps back. Martin blinks and holds up his hands in a placating gesture.

  
“S-Sorry. Are you sure? You’ve been texting me about being sick with a stomach bug…” he trails off. “ _ Bugs _ . Did-”

“She has my phone,” Jon hisses, and then he sways. If possible, he looks even paler now. Martin abruptly remembers that Jon never remembers to eat at work. Does that mean he didn’t have any food at home, either? Has he been starving for  _ three days? _

Martin bites his lip.

“Are you alright? Do you need to sit down? Come on, Jon, here,” he says and ushers Jon to the closest chair. Tim’s mug is still on the table. He must have forgotten to wash it before he left. “Um, I’ll- I’ll make tea.”

“Statement.”   
  


“What?” 

“I need- I should give my statement,” Jon says, clasping his hands, squeezing so hard his knuckles go white. Martin frowns. 

“Now? No! You should at least drink something first. I have some miso soup, I can heat it up for you.”   
  


Jonathan Sims stares blankly up at him.

“Why do you have miso soup?”

Martin blushes.

  
“Well- you were sick. Or I thought you were,” he mumbles, and it feels much safer to turn his back to Jon, to fill the kettle with water and put it on the barely functionable burner because Jon’s eyes have always been intense and Martin would rather prefer that he doesn’t see more than he  _ needs _ to. Like, say, Martin’s… crush. On him. “And I couldn’t decide on soup, so I bought miso too.”

There is a long, nerve wracking moment of silence as no doubt Jon struggles to figure out which part to tackle first. Martin keeps his back to him as he waits, and then Jon sighs. 

“What… what other soup did you get?”

“Chicken.”

“And you…  _ threw _ it. At Jane Prentiss?”

Martin winces.

“I panicked!”

“Was it in a red thermos?”

He blinks and looks over his shoulder. Jon isn’t looking at him anymore. He’s staring at his own hands, lips pursed and eyes narrowed. He still looks too pale and now, when Martin is pretty sure Jon has been  _ starving _ , he also looks thinner than before. Maybe he’s imagining it. Jon has always been skinny, after all. Boney. 

Martin is pretty sure he isn’t imagining it.

“Yes,” he finally says, and picks out the mug Jon prefers, even if Jon seems to try his best to never pick it. It’s white with a black cat, its tail forming the handle. The black is a little washed out, faded around the edges. “You, um, you saw it?”

“I almost stepped on it when I ran,” Jon admits, squinting into Tim’s mug. 

Oh.  _ Oh _ .

“She  _ did _ chase after me?” Martin says more than asks, and it’s suddenly so very hard to breathe. He has to squeeze his eyes shut and lean against the countertop to breathe, to calm down. In and out, in and out.

A warm hand presses against his back, and Martin startles. He looks down at Jon, who looks  _ concerned _ , and it’s such a strange sight to see that Martin stares.

Jonathan stares back; then he flushes and looks away, reaching for the cat mug.

“She did, but she didn’t catch you. Either of us,” he stiffly says, taking his hand back from where it had rested against Martin. “We are… fine.”

Martin blinks. Watches Jon busy himself with lingering over the teabags, as if he doesn’t always pick the exact same thing every time. Martin looks at his own mug and hopes Jon won’t mind that Martin’s smile is too wide, too giddy.

“We are,” he agrees, and then dares to touch Jon’s shoulder, bringing the man’s attention back to himself. “But you really  _ should _ sit down, Jon. Please? I know how you like your tea by now, I promise.”

Martin isn’t sure  _ how _ , but he always forgets how intense it is, having Jon staring at him with his full attention. It always makes Martin’s heart beat a little faster, makes him stare back, unable to break it. Even now, when he is half starved and pale and trembling, Jon’s eyes are piercing. It’s a blunt stare, the kind of blunt that slams through any defenses Martin might have had. 

It takes his breath away every single time. 

“Only if you take my statement,” Jon says, breaking the spell as he looks away. Martin groans and takes his hand back, pretending his heart isn’t hammering madly from Jon  _ staring _ at him. 

“Fine. Fine! I’ll take your statement, just,  _ please _ sit down? Before you  _ fall _ down?”

“Fine,” Jonathan Sims mutters, much like a petulant ten year old would, and Martin has to fight to keep his endeared smile at bay.

But Jon sits down and waits patiently for Martin to fix up the tea- green, for headaches, made just a bit too bitter from letting the water be a bit  _ too _ hot, with a drop of lemon and nothing else. 

Jon’s taste in tea is disgusting, but Martin will never tell him that.

“Here,” he says, putting the mug down before Jon, “Do you want soup too?”

“Maybe later,” Jon allows, pulling the mug close to himself as Martin prepares his own tea, “Do you need to fetch a tape recorder?”

“Um, ye-” He pauses as he notices there is one, actually, right by the little box they keep the teabags in. “Oh, no, actually. I must’ve forgotten to put this one aside,” he says and grabs it, even though he can’t actually remember  _ handling _ any today.

It’s not been a statement day. 

Still, Martin can’t deny that he often misplaces things, and he won’t try. He offers a sheepish smile at Jon’s judging frown as he sits down, and then he puts the tape recorder between them.

Martin sips his tea. Jon stares.

“... start statement?” 

“At least  _ taste _ your tea first,” Martin replies, and grins as Jon does so with only a little bit of grumbling. He’s pleased to note that the trembling of Jon’s hands ease, just a little bit. But Jon is staring pointedly.

Martin sighs, puts down his mug and presses play. 

“Martin Blackwood, Head Archivist at the Magnus Institute, recording statement given by Jonathan Sims,” he begins, and he really shouldn’t do this, he  _ knows _ he’ll be exhausted for at least the rest of the week for having recorded two statements in one week, but it’s easy. The words feel soothing. 

Besides, it’s not him who will be speaking for most of it.

Jon speaks and it’s  _ good _ . Martin watches and listens, and he’s not sure if he even blinks. Not even when Jon stumbles slightly as he describes seeing Jane Prentiss for the first time, a quick stutter before he takes a deep breath and keeps going. 

It really is as Martin had suspected.

Trapped for three days, with nothing but two pieces of toast and a lone teabag. The constant thumping of Jane Prentiss knocking against the door, the vigilance against the worms, not even able to drink tap water during the second day because it had grown too murky, too smelly. Hearing the scream and thump that would later be revealed to be Martin, but in the moment Jon hadn’t  _ known _ . Had thought Jane Prentiss had killed someone.

But the thumping had stopped and Jon had opened the door before he could think better, only to find an empty hallway and a lone, red thermos on the floor. He had run after that, run a shortcut that Martin hadn’t known about, with trembling limbs and a heart protesting the strain after three days of little to no food and-

Well, here they were.

Martin presses the button. Jon is back to trembling, paler than before. Meanwhile Martin feels… better. It’s reassuring, knowing things. And now he knows that Jon is  _ safe _ . But.

“You can’t go back there,” he says. Jon opens his mouth to protest, Martin is sure of it, so he cuts him off before he can. “She knows where you live and who knows if she will return! She has your phone, too. You  _ can’t  _ go back there, Jon. What if the next time it lasts even longer? Or maybe she’ll figure out she can use the sewers, the pipes, whatever. You can’t go  _ back _ .”

Jonathan Sims is hunching in on himself, and Martin wants to touch him so badly. Grab his shoulders or pull him into a hug or even just hold his hand. But the way he looks makes Martin thinks he might  _ break _ if Martin tries any of that. 

So Martin doesn’t, even if his entire body screams at him to do it.

“... I know,” Jon mumbles, and Martin’s never heard him do that before.  _ Jon _ doesn’t mumble. Jon grumps at  _ Martin _ for mumbling. “I know I can’t go back. I wasn’t going to.”

“Oh,” Martin blinks and sits back down- when did he  _ stand _ ? -and wraps his hands around the mug once more, “then what?”

Jon clears his throat and, Martin notices, very carefully doesn't look at him.

“There is a small room in the Archives. I think it was meant for housing important documents, but has become a storage room since,” he says, “and there is a small bed in there-”

“How do you know  _ that? _ ” Martin asks, hoping against hope that Jon won’t say-

“I, ah, I slept there a few times.”   
  
“Jon!”

“We are  _ behind schedule _ , Martin!”

“There is no schedule! If Gertrude didn’t bother sorting things for the  _ decades _ she worked here, then there’s no actual deadline for us to get it all in order! We have all the time in the world, Jon.” He exhales and leans back into his chair. “But…” he slowly says, “I- fine. I think it’s a good idea, I mean, to stay here? As long as you don’t forget to sleep or something.” 

Jon huffs, opening his mouth to no doubt deliver a scathing reply. 

Martin’s phone beeps.

It almost feels  _ rude _ , that beep. But Martin fishes out his phone to check what message he has received, silently hoping it’s not something bad about his mom or a text from Tim or Sasha claiming to have stomach  _ bugs _ .

What he reads is, somehow, so much worse.

“It’s from your phone,” he says, feeling strangely numb. "It, ah, it says… ‘Keep him, we have had our fun. He will want to see it when the Archivist's crimson fate arrives.’  _ Not _ foreboding at all,” Martin finishes, trying to lighten the mood, to laugh. It all comes out utterly flat. 

He suspects he is as pale as Jon is, right now.

“You should stay here too.”

Martin blinks.

“What?” he incredulously asks, because that was the  _ last _ thing he thought Jon would say. “Why?”

“She is clearly threatening you, Martin! And she chased after you, before. It’s safer for  _ both _ of us if you stay here too.”

It- it  _ does _ sound like a good idea. Martin can’t help but imagine her tracking him down. Worse, tracking down his  _ mom _ . But it’s still such a leap. The whole evening has been one massive, messy leap of unforeseeable events. 

He stares down at his cup of tea. 

“Is there even a second bed for me to sleep on?” Martin wonders.

“We can share until there is,” Jon replies, and Martin glances up just in time to see his assistant grimace at the idea. It shouldn’t be as endearing as it is, but Martin smiles weakly even as he feels all warm inside at the sight.

“How about this? We both stay here tonight. In the morning,  _ I _ will leave to get some clothes, some breakfast maybe? If all looks good outside, I will go back home tomorrow. You could even come along, I’ve got a good pull out couch.”

“And if it does not look ‘good’ outside?” 

“Then we’ll both stay here and warn Tim and Sasha,” Martin assures him, then frowns. “And Elias, too. He could decide on what to tell the rest of the staff.”

Jon watches him for a long moment. He still looks pale and too skinny, and there is more than a hint of stubble. He looks  _ exhausted _ , and Martin can’t blame him. 

Martin waits.

Finally, Jonathan Sims sighs and nods.

“Very well,” he says, and takes a sip of his tea. “You don’t snore, do you?”

“Not much.”

Martin has to bite back a laugh at Jon’s face to  _ that _ answer. He hides it behind his cup, and grins when he hears Jon muttering under his breath.

They will be fine, he thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LOOK MA', IT'S FINISHED!!
> 
> This is the end of this fic, but not the end of the series ^^  
Thank you so much for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> gosh I sure hope Jon returns soon :( so sad he's sick :((


End file.
